


and this bright star

by stardust (lightofthestars)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: (of gc), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Light Angst, Post-Canon, hello and welcome to some extremely self-indulgent femslash, sort of. if anything i would categorize this genre as "Gay with a 19th-Century Russian Aesthetic"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightofthestars/pseuds/stardust
Summary: Sonya and Mary, a journey in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild mentions of Bolkonsky being a kind of terrible father, but nothing too detailed.

It’s Natasha who introduces her to Princess Marya Nikolayevna Bolkonskaya.

In the time since the scandal with Anatole, Mary and Natasha have grown to genuinely like each other despite their rocky first meeting. Sonya is a little hesitant, not sure what to make of the rather enigmatic princess, but Natasha is adamant. It is only right now that they are friends, she tells her, that Sonya should meet her as well.

“I’m sure you’ll love her,” Natasha says, smiling. “I’m sure we’ll all be great friends!”

They visit Mary together, one winter afternoon.

Natasha knocks, and Mary answers the door.

She is tall, but holds herself almost timidly, almost as if she wants to minimize her height. She is wearing a simple black dress, plain and unassuming, and a cross hangs at her neck. Her light brown hair is done up in a neat braided bun. What is most striking to Sonya, though, is the weary sadness that seems to shadow her eyes, even as she brightens once she sees who is here to visit. “Natasha, hello!”

They greet each other warmly, then Mary turns to Sonya. Sonya finds her face heating up slightly when fixed by the other woman’s surprisingly firm gaze. She is really quite pretty, Sonya thinks, apropos of nothing. “And you must be Sofia. It’s lovely to meet you. Natasha has spoke much of you.”

“Please, you must call me Sonya,” she replies shyly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Princess Marya.”

“Oh, just Mary will do! Please, come in.”

They have caught the Bolkonskys at a good time. The old prince is sleeping, and the three women get to chat in peace over tea.

Mary and Sonya take to each other quite quickly, a fact that Natasha rather smugly points out afterwards to Sonya, to which she feigns exasperation.

For a remarkable friendship does indeed begin to form between them, the lonely princess and the oft-overlooked cousin. Mary doesn’t leave the house much, but Sonya visits her, sometimes with Natasha, sometimes without. Andrey is not always around, but when he is, he acknowledges Sonya and even Natasha with brief nods. The rifts between the Rostovs and the Bolkonskys are healing, slowly but surely.

They have tea together, often, and an inexplicable fondness for Mary grows in Sonya’s heart. It’s not the fondness itself — Mary is nice, and she’s her friend, and it’s not odd that she likes her. But the way her heart beats a little faster when Mary laughs (gently, usually, but her eyes are always so bright), the sense of pride that blossoms in her chest when she says something that makes Mary smile, the way her eyes are drawn to Mary’s lips and how soft they look sometimes (and she always feels heat rise in her cheeks at that thought), well — that’s new. There’s something about her friendship with Mary that feels different from her friendship with Natasha, but she always folds up the thought and files it away to deal with later.

Maybe it will pass with time anyway, Sonya thinks. It’s probably just the novelty of it all.

It all comes to a head, one spring afternoon.

Sonya knocks, and Mary answers the door.

Her smile is a little tired, a little thin, but she looks happy to see her. “Oh! Hello, Sonya. What brings you here?”

Before Sonya can respond, she is interrupted by Prince Bolkonsky.

“Ungrateful wretch!” Mary’s father screams, and Sonya can hear the clatter of metal against hardwood from somewhere within the house. Mary jolts a little, and the smile drops from her face entirely, so quick it tugs sharply at Sonya’s heart.

“Forgive me, Sonya, but I must attend to my father,” Mary says. “I’ll be back soon.”

She closes the door partway and rushes back into the house. Sonya is left staring after her, hearing her footsteps fade away.

Sonya fiddles with her hands, shifting her weight from foot to foot in front of the door. Finally, the door swings open and Mary appears again, looking noticeably more dishevelled — hair loosening in her bun, the very top button of her collar looking in danger of coming undone at the slightest bit more movement — and troubled. “My apologies, Sonya. What… What can I do for you?”

“I— I just wanted to see you.” Sonya’s not sure why the words give her such a fluttering feeling in her stomach.

“Oh.” Mary’s voice is small, and a faint flush begins to form, high on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Is... everything alright?” Sonya asks, knowing the answer is _no_ but not sure what else to say.

“You know how my father can be,” Mary sighs. “He is alright now, though, I think. Come on inside.”

When they pass through, Prince Bolkonsky is calmed, sitting slouched at the table. They tread carefully, and take their tea in the side room. Mary is subdued, and the line of tension in her shoulders is still terribly obvious to Sonya, but slowly, she begins to relax as they sip their tea and talk.

Without warning, the old prince in the other room lets out a shout, and Mary bolts upright, rushing to the doorway. She is in time to see him stagger upright out of his seat and stumble off into the hallway, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath all the while.

Mary bites her lip to keep from screaming. She has never lost her temper at her father, not once. He is cruel, he is rude, but he does not deserve that. Tears gather in the corner of her eyes, but she wills herself desperately not to cry. She turns back to where Sonya is sitting, taking an unsteady breath as she makes her way back to her seat. “You must forgive him, Sonya. He is not in his right mind.” Her voice trembles only slightly.

Once again Sonya is in awe of Mary, of this sweet, kind girl in front of her who suffers silently and endlessly at home, day after day, yet still would not let herself cry now. Her heart twists, and she moves closer, reaches a hand out to brush the loose hair out of Mary’s face.

Sonya chooses her words carefully. Haltingly, she begins, “I… know that you can’t help but forgive him, because he’s your father. No matter what, he’s still your father. But,” and here Sonya takes a deep breath before continuing, with steel in her voice, “that doesn’t mean I will. You must forgive him, but I cannot. He has no right to treat you like this. His own daughter. I’m so sorry, Mary.”

And Mary finally lets the tears fall, a sob escaping past her lips as Sonya pulls her close, hands warm against her back. A profound sense of gratitude rushes through her at Sonya’s words, as much a firm declaration of support as a validation of her feelings. But a horrible wave of guilt follows, at the very feeling of relief Mary has in response to Sonya’s resolve, and she sobs even harder. He is a tired old man, and must be forgiven. She forgives him. But she is so strangely grateful that someone does not.

It is a difficult thing to resolve this conflicting whirl of emotions, but a calm at least does wash over Mary, eventually. Sonya’s cheek is soft, and her arms are a comforting presence around her waist. Mary looks up, and sees her closed eyes, the tremble in her jaw, the tears glistening in her eyelashes. She is so, so thankful to this good, gentle girl in front of her, and she reaches up with a hesitant hand to brush the tears from Sonya’s face. “Don’t cry for me, Sonya. Thank you for everything, but please, don’t cry.”

Sonya’s eyes flutter open, and she lets out a sigh. “Mary…”

She finds herself at a bit of a loss for words, unable to express what exactly she’s feeling (pity, sympathy, anger, something… something else?), so she settles instead for pressing a soft kiss to Mary’s forehead.

Mary looks at her with wide eyes, the surprise visible in them breaking Sonya’s heart all over again. Such a tender feeling blooms in her chest, its intensity unexpected even to Sonya herself, and she pulls Mary close again, lets her rest her head on her shoulder. And they stay like that for a long time.

 

* * *

 

On the carriage ride home Sonya cannot think of anything but Mary, Mary’s face as she broke into sobs, Mary’s entire body trembling as she cried against Sonya’s shoulder, Mary’s heartbreaking look of gratitude. She feels a surge of protectiveness, wishing there was more she could do, wishing she could steal Mary away, away from her terrible old father and into a new life, wishing she could find a way to make Mary happy.

Natasha notices immediately, when she gets home. “Oh, Sonya, what happened?”

And Sonya tells her about old Prince Bolkonsky, about how she fears and worries for Mary.

“It was like a knife twisting in my heart, seeing her like that,” Sonya recalls. Natasha’s eyes are filled with concern and understanding. “I wish we could do more to help her, Natasha. I want to help her. I suppose I just hope that our visits provide some small comfort for her. Oh, Natasha, I…”

And suddenly, as soon as the words leave her mouth, Sonya realizes something incredibly important.

“I… love her.”

And suddenly, everything clicks into place.

Natasha’s eyes are clear. “You’re... _in_ love with her, Sonya.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m _in_ love with her.”

Natasha cannot help but laugh gently at the dumbstruck look on her face. “Sonya, I think you’re in love with Mary Bolkonskaya.”

“I think I’m in love with Mary Bolkonskaya,” Sonya repeats, breathlessly, stupidly. “Oh, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the fic that's been consuming my life for like the past 2 months! Anyways, more will come as I edit and polish lol. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

When Marya Dmitrievna catches wind of Prince Bolkonsky’s latest episode, she has strong words for him indeed. She’s grown quite fond of Princess Mary, lately, and has developed a protectiveness of her akin to that which she feels for her own family. She cannot take her away from her father, not outright, but she’ll be damned if she’ll let the man, ailing or not, treat his daughter like that with no reprimand whatsoever.

Telling Natasha and Sonya to remain at home, Marya throws on her shawl and marches to the Bolkonskys’ house in a storm of curses and righteous anger.

“Natasha, what am I to do?” Sonya paces the room restlessly while Natasha watches on with bemusement. It was rare to see Sonya so flustered, and some childish part of Natasha is amused at her normally even-tempered cousin’s complete panic. “How can I face her ever again?”

“Maybe you should just… tell her how you feel?” Natasha suggests.

“Absolutely not! How— Why—” Sonya’s spluttering now, and it takes her a moment to recollect her thoughts. She drags a hand down her face and shoots her a look. “It’ll ruin our friendship, Natasha. It only makes things awkward, when she doesn’t feel the same way.”

“How do you know? She’s been quite taken with you, too, since you first met. Who’s to say she doesn’t love you?”

“But not like _that!_ ” Sonya presses a hand to her temple, feeling a headache coming on. She and Mary are friends, of that there is no doubt. But the way Sonya feels about her, the way she’s never felt for any man… “She doesn’t love me like that.”

Natasha is uncharacteristically quiet at that, a contemplative look on her face. Sonya sighs. “It’s okay,” she says. “We’re friends, and that’s plenty enough for me.” She doesn’t know if she’s trying to convince Natasha, or herself.

Natasha doesn’t say anything, but she nods, and pulls Sonya in for a hug.

 

* * *

 

Mary looks much better, when Sonya and Natasha check up on her the next day. Still pale, still shaken, but better. All throughout the afternoon, Sonya can’t think of anything but how much she’d like to hold her close and protect her from her father, how much she’d like to kiss the distressed look off Mary’s sad face (what would that feel like?). She’s so distracted by the thought that Mary herself has to call her name three times before she snaps out of it. “Sonya, are you alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine! Pardon me. What were you saying?” She knows her face is reddening, but there’s little she can do about it now but pray that Mary pays it no mind.

No such luck, alas. “Er… are you sure? You’re not running a fever, are you?” Mary presses a hand to Sonya’s forehead, and her touch is electric. Sonya has to pull away slightly, before her heart leaps into her throat.

“Yes! Yes. I’m alright.” She can see Natasha hiding a smile behind her hand and shoots her a warning glare.

Mary frowns, not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push the matter.

Sonya’s nervousness nags a little at the back of her mind, for the rest of the day, but she tries to believe that if something were truly amiss she would tell her.

And so it goes.

Natasha realizes, at some point, that the awkward tension developing between Mary and Sonya will likely never be resolved without a little bit of encouragement. What’s slowly become clear as the moon on a cloudless night, to Natasha, is something the two of them seem to remain oblivious to. They need a push to bring them together.

“I really think you need to tell her how you feel,” Natasha says one day. “It’s best to clear it up now. You can hardly look her in the eye! And that’s just when you do actually see her. She must be hurt and confused by the way you’ve begun avoiding her.”

“I’m not avoiding her!” she protests.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Sonya, since when do you say no to visiting Mary, when I ask? I know you aren’t busy. And yet lately, you’ve somehow been preoccupied every single time I bring it up.”

Sonya lets out an irritated sigh, knowing she is right but unwilling to admit it quite yet.

Natasha leans in, clasps Sonya’s hands in hers. “Dear cousin, it will be alright. I think… Mary will understand, no matter what. You shall not lose each other over a matter such as this. I think you need to tell her the truth, and explain what exactly is going on.” She pauses, making sure Sonya is really listening to her, before continuing. “And love, well, that is a rare thing, as I’ve learned all too well. You should not squander a chance at it, a _real_ chance, for fear of the unknown.”

Sonya is silent for a long moment as she considers Natasha’s words. Then she pulls her towards her, wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug. “I… thank you.” She smiles, a little tremulously. “When exactly did you become so wise, Natasha?”

Natasha laughs. “Oh, you’ve done so much for me, Sonya. I only just want to do the same for you.”

 

* * *

 

Sonya visits Mary alone, at Natasha’s insistence.

“Hello,” she says when Mary opens the door, not quite sure what to do with her hands or even her face. Mary looks so surprised to see her that Sonya feels a sudden pang of guilt. Oh, Mary did not deserve any of this. “I’m… sorry about how strange I’ve been acting. I will explain, I promise, but right now… I miss you, Mary. Can we…”

“Of course,” Mary cuts in gently. “Come in, Sonya.”

They don’t talk of much, besides the weather and the local gossip. Mary is desperate to understand what is going on with Sonya, wants so much to know why she seems to be pulling away, but she could see from the stricken look on her face when she first opened the door that Sonya would need a little bit of time before she is ready to share. They end up moving to the Bolkonskys’ vast library, Mary suggesting that they simply read for a little bit in an effort to put Sonya more at ease. And it seems to work, the furrow in Sonya’s brow easing slightly upon seeing the rows and rows of books.

They read in a quiet that is almost comfortable, for a while. Despite her growing sense of dread, Mary does manage to get invested in the book she’s picked, and soon she is lost in the pages.

(Sonya knows she has to tell Mary, eventually. It’s what she’s come here to do. There is no going back now.)

She sets down her book with a soft thump, and Mary glances up from her own.

Sonya looks anxious. She reaches up to tuck a bit of hair behind her ear, before taking a deep breath. Mary waits patiently, curiously.

“So. I— I have something to tell you. Something important.”

“Go on?” The poor girl looks so nervous, Mary’s afraid she’s about to faint.

“I… I have liked you from the first glance, Mary. I’m so, so sorry to have caused you any hurt by being distant. I was struggling with some very strong and confusing feelings, and didn’t know how to address them, or how to face you, until now. I should have just told the truth in the first place… but I hope it is acceptable that I am trying now.

“I am so glad that I have gotten the chance to meet someone as wonderful as you. You are the bravest, kindest, best person I know, and every time I see you I feel blessed to know you. Every time I see you, I am thankful to you for existing.”

Sonya pauses, and steels herself before continuing, blurting out something that she is sure to regret later. “You are so lovely, Mary, and my God, for the past half hour it has certainly not been that book I’ve been looking at. It’s you. You are so, so beautiful.”

Mary is so, so confused, and she won’t allow herself to be hopeful, but— “Sonya? What are you…?”

“And it’s okay, if you don’t feel the same, or if you need time to process it, but…” She hesitates.

“Sonya?”

Her words die in her throat. But she can’t simply leave it like this, so she shows her feelings in the only way she can. And she leans forward, draws Mary towards her by the chin, and kisses her, quick and short.

When she pulls back, Mary is stiff as a board, frozen with shock. Sonya immediately regrets her decision, and curses Natasha internally. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Forget that ever—”

“Shush.” Mary interrupts her sharply, and her tone brooks no argument. Instantly, her look turns apologetic, as if she is surprised by her own forcefulness. Sonya tilts her head, not quite understanding.

“Can we… Um. Could we do that again? Longer, maybe?” Mary offers the words to her, full of self-doubt and hesitance.

And now it’s Sonya’s turn to be shocked, and she gapes at Mary for a long second until she remembers herself. “Oh! I… Um. Yes. Please.” The last concession is barely more than a whisper, and brings colour to her cheeks, embarrassment flooding through her at her own forwardness.

Mary gives her a shy smile, and Sonya’s heart is racing as Mary brings their faces and their lips together once more, and they melt into each other, Mary’s hands around her waist and Sonya’s arms looped around her neck. By the time they come up for air they’ve made it to the velvet chaise, Mary’s arms are on either side of her head, and her nose is inches away from Sonya’s. They’re both breathing heavily.

The tips of her ears are bright red. There’s a glazed look in Sonya’s eyes as she touches her fingers to her mouth reverently, the memory of Mary’s lips on hers only a moment ago causing her to let out the most ridiculous giggle.

Mary’s cheeks are flushed, too, and she can’t help but laugh out loud. “I think it goes without saying that you are forgiven, Sonya.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Natasha opens the door, she needs only a moment to take in her faraway smile, her still-flushed cheeks, and her slightly-rumpled collar before she squeals, throws her arms around Sonya, and crushes her in a hug. “I knew it! Oh, I’m so happy for you. I told you things would be alright!”

Sonya chuckles softly but returns the hug enthusiastically, and nods a greeting at Marya, who she can see sitting in the next room over her cousin’s shoulder. But she can’t quite blink away the dreamy look in her eyes or bring her head back down from the clouds completely, so it takes her a bit of a moment to process exactly what Natasha has said. Once she does, something catches her attention in particular. “Natasha, you knew?”

“Well, no,” Natasha clarifies, pulling back to look at Sonya earnestly. “Not for sure! Mary was always very close-lipped about the whole subject of love anyway, whenever it came up in our conversations. I didn’t know with any certainty how she felt. I just… had a feeling. A very strong feeling. You both seemed to really, really like each other.”

“Oh, I knew for sure.” Marya snorts, having caught the tail end of their conversation when she walked into the room. “I’d know the look of a pair of lovesick fools anywhere.” Sonya looks away, slightly embarrassed, before Marya continues. “Sonya dear, you remember the message I passed along to you from the good princess, that day I visited the Bolkonskys?”

She nods, though _visit_ is certainly a gentle way of putting it.

“The way that girl talked about you? The look on her face when she asked me to give you her thanks? That was the manner of a woman in love, my dear.”

Sonya feels herself reddening again, at how apparently transparent the whole affair had been to everyone else. “Ah, well…”

Marya rolls her eyes, gives Sonya a firm pat on the shoulder. “It certainly took you two long enough. But congratulations, truly.”

“...Thank you, Marya.”

The next time they go for afternoon tea, Sonya and Mary cannot stop smiling at each other the entire time. Natasha can only laugh indulgently. They deserve all the happiness in the world, really. And she is so glad they are finding it with each other.

Natasha takes that opportunity to congratulate Mary as well, a smirk playing over her face, and both women turn a little bit red at that. But they are thankful for Natasha’s support, and for the wonderful turn their lives have taken. And days and weeks of laughing over lunch, of chatting over tea, of stealing kisses over stories, pass in a gentle warmth.

 

* * *

 

Mary is humming to herself, quietly, as she picks out a soft tune on the piano when Sonya returns to the parlour. It’s one of those rare times where Mary is able to visit the Rostovas for a change, and Sonya has to stop for a moment, leaning in the doorframe, smiling at the scene before her.

“That’s beautiful,” she finally says, when Mary takes a pause.

Mary starts, a little. “Er, my apologies,” she says sheepishly. “I never could resist a piano.”

“No, no, it’s more than fine,” Sonya reassures. “I was serious. That was lovely, Mary. Do you play much, at home?”

“When I can,” she sighs. “Not as often as I’d like.”

“Well, feel free to do so now!”

She makes her way over to the piano bench and sits down beside Mary. “We could play together, too, if… if you’d like.”

“That would be very nice, Sonya,” Mary says, smiling.

They spend a great portion of the afternoon hunched over the keys, playing wandering melodies, offhanded improvisations, laughing when they hit a particularly discordant chord or two.

“Oh, this is so wonderful... Masha.” The last word slips out almost unintentionally, but Sonya supposes she would not take it back.

And Mary colours, slightly. She likes the way that sounds in Sonya’s voice very much indeed.

“Sonyushka,” she replies simply, trying it out, how it feels in her mouth, and she’s rewarded with a flush that spreads dark over Sonya’s cheeks. And when Sonya glances away shyly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Mary asks a question. “Would you care for a dance?”

Sonya is a little taken aback, but when she looks back Mary’s lips are quirked in a way that is so incredibly endearing, and how could Sonya say no?

“I’d love one.”

And Mary’s smile widens as she stands up from the bench, holding out a hand for Sonya to take. Her fingers are so warm in Sonya’s, and their hands fit together so seamlessly. Sonya puts her other hand against Mary’s shoulder, feeling the light touch of Mary’s hand against her waist. And she hums a lively waltz as Mary leads them around the room, circling gracefully around the piano, carefully around the furniture. When they finally spin to a stop, back next to the piano again, Sonya stretches up to give Mary a quick peck on the cheek before resting her head against Mary’s chest, sighing contentedly. And Mary’s heart is full to the brim as she leans down to press a kiss to Sonya’s hair.

 

* * *

 

Even the old prince seems to be a bit less erratic in the following months, and the turbulence in the Bolkonsky household subsides slightly. In his rare moments of lucidity he seems _almost_ gruffly pleased at Mary’s newfound happiness. Almost. He doesn’t try to chase Sonya away anymore like he’s done to all of Mary’s suitors in the past, at the very least.

But Mary is still concerned. More and more her father is finding himself confined to his bed, too tired and weak to even get up at all, some days. His outbursts are far less common now, yes, but Mary is sure that is more a result of his fading strength than a sign of recovery. And she knows, she knows he is old, and he has not much left in him. But still she dreads the inevitable that is looming close over the horizon.

“You’re doing the best you can, Masha,” Sonya reminds her gently. She comes over, sometimes, to help Mary guide her father through a meal, or to make him a cup of tea in the evenings, or to attend to household duties that Mary is not able to. Mary never likes to let her do that, but Andrey is away again, and Sonya can be so stubborn once she determines that there is something that needs to be done.

Mary sighs in reply, worrying at her lip, so anxious and despondent that Sonya says nothing more, simply draws Mary towards her and kisses her tenderly on the cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up for minor mentions of alcoholism and its intersection with grief, light angst.

Prince Nikolai Andreyevich Bolkonsky dies peacefully on a cold winter evening, as the snow falls silent and still over Moscow. Mary sits by his bedside. Andrey isn’t here.

She cries tears of wretched joy at her father’s passing, feeling awful for feeling relief, but knowing in her heart that he will be more at peace in heaven than he ever was in his last years on earth. When Sonya answers her distraught summons the next morning, she pulls her close into her arms immediately.

“He is in a better place now,” Sonya reminds her, in a soothing voice, as she strokes her hair gently. “But I am truly sorry.”

“He told me that he loved me, in his last moments,” she tells Sonya, who purses her lips, a light crinkle forming between her eyes as she turns this over in her head. Finally, she says,

“I think he always loved you, Masha. I’m sorry that it took so long for his mind to remember his heart.”

And Mary cries again, cries for the broken old man whom she prays has finally found peace.

 

* * *

 

Andrey loses himself, a little bit, when the old prince dies.

It’s not as though he was even there to see him pass. Andrey is rarely home, nowadays, his work keeping him busy.

It’s not as though his father was particularly kind or fatherly to either of his children, in his later years. Far from it. But he was still his father, and grief is a creature that follows no reason.

Andrey withdraws from the world, spends hours in their father’s chair, sitting in the dark and just… staring. He can’t seem to make himself feel anything. He doesn’t cry. Not for a long time.

It’s not until one terrible night, with alcohol on his breath and shattered glass on the floor, standing blankly in the middle of his study with blood on his hand, that he finally lets the tears fall. Mary comes running, and then she is right there, her eyes glistening, and he’s pulling her towards him and they cling to each other like survivors of a shipwreck as the world slips past around them. It’s been far, far too long. Andrey is filled with a deep sense of shame, shame at being absent, in soul and in body, and leaving his sweet sister to bear the burden of their father’s illness alone. “I’m so sorry, Masha,” he murmurs into Mary’s hair, the words sounding so pathetically inadequate as soon as they leave his mouth. But Mary understands, as she always does, and she simply presses closer into his chest, hugging him tightly like they’re children again, waiting for a storm to pass. And the Bolkonsky siblings hold onto each other as if they never want to let go.

 

* * *

 

It’s slow, but it’s steady.

The funeral is a subdued, quiet affair, but attended by many. The prince was well-known by all, and all remember the man he was in his prime.

Andrey grieves for his father, and it takes him a while to come back to himself, to understand the deeply-repressed feelings that, only after that night in his study, begin bubbling to the surface. It’s a long, hard, road, but he has his family and his friends by his side, always.

Mary grieves for her father, but she cannot deny herself the wonder she feels at finally being free. To reconcile her guilt and her gratitude is an enormous thought that she may not ever understand, but her family, and her friends, and her Sonya are there with her, every step of the way.

In fact, Sonya begins spending her nights at the Bolkonskys’ so often that eventually Mary just asks her to move in. Perhaps it’s a bit bold of a move, but all Mary knows is that she would love to wake up with Sonya by her side every day, really.

The possible implications of this are… not lost on anyone. Sonya’s face turns bright red when Mary brings it up to her over lunch that day. Marya raises an eyebrow knowingly, when they go to tell her, but she nods her approval and ruffles Sonya’s hair affectionately. And Natasha smiles, wrapping both of them up into a warm hug. “I’ll be sure to visit often! But not too often,” she adds with a sly wink, leaving both of them flustered and mildly scandalized. Besides all the teasing, Mary truly is grateful for Sonya’s presence. She makes the large Bolkonsky manor a little less lonely, especially when Andrey is away. And she and Sonya go out into the city quite often, too, now that Mary is more able to leave the house.

One day they go to Madame Chambord’s with Natasha and Marya, where Natasha proceeds to force Mary to try on all manner of dresses, much to Mary’s chagrin and Sonya’s amusement. “You need a new dress, Mary,” she insists. “For the opera tomorrow!”

“You look very pretty,” Sonya says, when Mary turns her dismayed gaze towards her. A peace offering. It works, and Mary’s cheeks flush with embarrassed gratitude. Sonya laughs, and kisses her lightly. It really is true, though. Mary looks stunning, in a midnight blue evening gown that’s floor-length and still modest, but much bolder than her usual austere wear.

The opera is as fascinating and as strange as ever. This time it is a story of a fiddler, and a miller, and two remarkable sisters.

Natasha is again quite taken with it all, almost as soon as the performance begins, and as the tale unfolds Sonya does have to admit that perhaps this spectacle was more worthwhile than she had originally felt. But it’s when she glances over at Mary, at her rapturous face, her small smile of delight, the inquisitive tilt to her head, that she really begins to enjoy the opera. When Mary catches her eye during the last number, flashes her a brilliant, awed smile, Sonya’s heart flutters in her chest. She reaches for Mary’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and they remain like that all the way until the final applause.

And at night they return home, cheeks glowing from the cold, and huddle together all warm in their bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here it is... This is definitely the most self-indulgent chapter, haha.
> 
> Some Soft sexual content, but it's pretty mild. Nothing explicit. Feel free to skip to the end though, if you're uncomf! The very last line is the only really plot-important one.

It’s a peaceful day in Bald Hills, the air bitingly crisp and the sky pure blue. With no errands to run, Sonya and Mary spend an idyllic day at home, admiring the view from the wide-paned windows. They curl up together on the sofa after dinner, evening light filtering soft through the curtains of the Bolkonskys’ main drawing room. But there are no guests, today. Sonya’s dozed off, quietly, and Mary hums contentedly as she reads her book. She’s about an hour in when she feels Sonya stir against her side.

“Masha,” Sonya murmurs, without opening her eyes, shifting to press closer to Mary. “What are you reading?”

“It’s a story about a soldier, and a rose, and a pot of honey,” Mary answers, and Sonya laughs. She shifts so she can rest her chin on Mary’s shoulder and read along with her.

“What kind of story is it?”

“A circular one,” Mary says, smiling, as she lightly traces a circle on the back of Sonya’s hand. “About love, and death, and whiskey.”

Sonya huffs lightly, knowing Mary is being deliberately obfuscating. “Don’t tease! I’ll make you regret it.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And how will do you that, Sonya?”

Oh. Sonya hadn’t quite thought this far ahead, and now the almost expectant way Mary is looking at her makes her face redden. She hadn’t meant it like that, not at all.

She hadn’t meant it like that, but… well. Who was she to deny her Mary?

So she leans in, slowly tracing the line of Mary’s jaw with a finger, fixing an exaggeratedly ponderous look on her face. Inwardly, she feels a sense of pride at the fact that this simple action manages to bring colour to Mary’s cheeks. “Hmm. Like this.”

And Sonya climbs into Mary’s lap and kisses her hard, a hand against the back of Mary’s neck drawing her towards her. Mary’s grip on her book goes slack, and it falls open and forgotten onto the table, and her hands find their way into Sonya’s hair, fingers running through the silky strands. When they break apart again for a moment to take a breath, Mary is smirking despite it all.

“Hey, Sonyushka.”

“What?”

“I don’t regret it one bit.”

And Sonya snorts, exasperated. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then she shoves her shoulders back, pins her against the sofa, and presses her mouth to Mary’s again. She feels her sigh against her lips, and then Mary’s hands are wandering down her sides, looping around her waist to pull her closer. Eventually, Sonya pulls back slightly, managing to get out a quiet “Wait” between breaths. Mary looks up at her through her eyelashes, gaze inquiring. “We should… take this elsewhere.”

“Oh, right,” Mary says, laughing breathlessly.

They almost stumble over each other in their haste to reach the bedroom, and now Mary is the one pulling Sonya along, and once inside Mary wastes no time in pushing Sonya down onto the bed, climbing over top of her to straddle her hips. And Sonya lets her. Leaning onto her elbows, Mary presses another kiss to her cheek, making Sonya giggle in that shy way that drives Mary crazy.

And Mary pauses, takes a moment to marvel at the sight before her. Sonya’s head is thrown back, her fiery ginger hair loose, splayed over the pillows, and Mary can’t help but grin at her slightly-swollen lip, her parted mouth, the pretty flush on her cheeks. Then she dips down, tracing with her lips the pale dusting of freckles across Sonya’s shoulder. Sonya’s breath hitches as Mary slowly comes to a stop over her neck, hovering agonizingly close but not quite touching.

“Sonyushenka, darling,” Mary whispers, a tickle against her collarbone, and it sends a shiver through Sonya’s body and she blushes harder than she ever has in her entire life. “You are positively radiant.”

And then her mouth is pressed firm to Sonya’s neck, leaving a languid trail of kisses that burn hot against her throat until she’s hardly able to form a thought at all anymore. And when Mary’s teeth catch against soft skin, Sonya lets out a breathy gasp, her hands fisting in the sheets. A swell of affection rushes through Mary, and she laughs, helplessly, before going back to the task at hand with increased fervour, kissing and nipping at Sonya’s collar. Sonya is already half-delirious with pleasure when Mary adjusts her position, tentatively.

But Mary’s thigh slots so perfectly between hers, and it makes her hips buck involuntarily and Sonya has to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. Mary’s eyes immediately flick towards hers, and she pulls herself up to face her for a moment, and she says, shyly, sweetly, “You don’t need to do that. I… I want to hear you.” At the same time, she shifts her leg, slightly, and this time Sonya moans loud, and the delighted smile on Mary’s face sends a warmth radiating through her chest.

Mary trails her fingers through Sonya’s hair, against her cheek, over the dark bruises that are blooming on the skin of her throat, marvelling at the way Sonya’s breath quickens and her eyes flutter closed at the touch of her hand. But when her fingers reach the neckline of Sonya’s dress, she hesitates. All of a sudden, she loses a bit of her confidence, looking up again with uncertainty in her eyes. “Is it… Are you sure you want to do this?”

And it takes Sonya a moment to process the question, but once she does, she knows her answer. “Masha… I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you. I want you, I want you right now. Please.”

And who was she to deny her Sonya?

They help each other out of their clothes, Sonya’s hands shaking slightly as she unlaces the back of Mary’s dress and slides the fabric over her arms. and in the candlelight Mary is gorgeous, the soft glow cast over her face leaving Sonya more than a little dazzled. She reaches up with a gentle hand to stroke the soft curve of her cheek, eyes full of wonder and love, and as she leans back she captures Mary in another passionate kiss, pulling her down with her. When she opens her eyes again all she can see is Mary’s adoring gaze and her beautiful face and Sonya knows then that she is so, so, gone, pulled so far into loving Princess Marya Bolkonskaya that she can never have it any other way. And she has absolutely no problem with that at all.

Though, when Mary looks at her playfully, fingers flitting lightly, teasing over Sonya’s bare torso, Sonya begins to maybe regret the extent of the power that she’s given Mary over her. But only for a second, because then Mary’s pressing a kiss to the side of her ribcage, and another, and there’s a whine at the back of Sonya’s throat that sends Mary’s heartbeat racing. Mary kisses a line down her stomach, lovingly, teasingly, until the whine becomes a moan, until finally Mary’s lips ghost over her hip, and then Sonya’s mind fogs over delightfully.

And Mary is attentive, attuned to Sonya’s every gasp and shudder and tug on her hair, and her mouth is doing _so much_ and Sonya can only last _so long_ like this, and something has to give, and it does.

“Mashunya,” she breathes hoarsely as she rides out the euphoric haze, eyes wide, clutching at Mary’s shoulder. Mary’s heart skips a beat at the sound, and it feels a little bit like she is floating, far above the clouds.

They sort of lay like that for a while, neither of them ready to move, both of them breathing heavily. But Mary is eventually shaken out of her reverie several long moments later, when she feels an insistent tap on her shoulder. “Come here,” Sonya tells her, and her voice is low and husky and it sends a little thrill of pleasure through Mary. And she crawls up until she can face Sonya, whose smile, she realizes with mild trepidation, is almost predatory.

“Wow. I love you,” Mary blurts out.

Sonya’s smile widens. “I love you, too, Mashunya,” she says, softly. “Now please, let me show you.”

 

* * *

 

They’re both sweaty and panting and delightfully exhausted by the end of it all, and Mary’s still got such a hopelessly stupefied look on her face that Sonya can only laugh. A great sense of satisfied wonder washes over her at the thought that _she’d_ done that! She’d made Mary Bolkonskaya feel so good that she is, apparently, currently completely incapable of thought.

Another slow, dazed moment passes, before Mary wraps her arms around Sonya, pulling her close against her, and rests her head on Sonya’s chest with a quiet huff. “How was that?” Sonya whispers, a grin dancing on her lips as she brings her arms up to return the hug.

“Good... Really good.” And that’s about all Mary can come up with, right now. But it’s somewhat rare that Sonya gets a chance to drive Mary so deeply into this astonishingly cute and… rather cuddly state, so she’s not about to let it go just yet.

“Are you sure?” Sonya teases, smirking. “You sound quite out of it, Mashenka. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Mary mumbles something sleepily in reply, pressing closer into Sonya, hiding her face, the tips of her ears beginning to turn red. Sonya laughs, poking her gently on the cheek. “What was that?”

“Much more than alright…” Mary murmurs. “‘m so… glad you’re here…”

“Oh.” Her heart swells at the soft words. She kisses her temple tenderly, as Mary begins to doze off in her arms. “Me, too.” Then she yawns, drowsily, and the two of them soon drift into sleep, warm and content in each other’s embrace.

 

* * *

 

Mary wakes with no reason, to the sun rising and a warmth by her side.

Blinking blearily, she looks over, drinking in the sight of Sonya still soundly asleep, early rays of sunlight already tangling in her red hair, and the softest, most gentle smile in the upturn of her lips. Mary sighs fondly, wondering how in the high heavens did she come to be so fortunate. What has she done, to deserve a love such as this in her life?

And it’s in this moment, Sonya’s arm thrown over Mary’s chest, Mary’s arm around her shoulder, that Mary comes to realize something very, very important.

“Oh my God,” she says, quietly, to herself. “I want to marry her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, this is probably the chapter I'm most fond and proud of, writing-wise as well? Lol.
> 
> A certain part of this is definitely heavily inspired by a Prairie Empire song, if anyone caught onto that, haha. (And of course, Ghost Quartet references continue to abound as well.)
> 
> Anyways, we're in the home stretch now! Kudos and comments are appreciated, and as always, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

There are some things in life that, once a conclusion is reached, are impossible to return from. Once the realization is made, it cannot be unmade at all. It’s all-encompassing, it demands to be acknowledged.

This was definitely one of those things.

In the coming days, Mary finds it difficult to think of anything else. How could she, when every night she falls asleep with a sleepy murmur of love in her ear and warm arms wrapped around her waist? How could she, when every day she wakes up with this beautiful woman in her bed, by her side?

Everything about Sonya (her soft hair, her kind eyes, the little dimple in her cheek when she smiles) only amplifies the thought, makes her fall a little bit deeper in love.

She stumbles upon her sitting at the piano one evening when she returns from the market, singing softly to herself as her fingers dance across the keys, oblivious even to Mary’s presence. And oh, even so quietly her voice fills the room, warm and rich and sweet as honey. Mary’s eyes widen. She has really never understood why Sonya is so shy about her voice. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds she’s ever heard. And normally she would join her, sit next to her on the bench and they’d play and sing and smile together. But today, she finds herself completely overwhelmed by the feelings of fondness that flood her heart, and she rushes into the kitchen to put down her bags before she drops them all on the floor, blushing profusely.

She is simply offering her a steaming cup of tea one afternoon when Mary catches herself staring at the line of her wrist, her hand, imagining what it’d be like to slip a ring onto her finger. (Gold would suit her, Mary thinks.) She blinks, hard, to snap out of it, trying to will the sudden flush of red off of her cheeks. When she smiles her thanks and takes the cup she nearly spills it on herself in her rush to conceal the momentary lapse, much to Sonya’s bewilderment and concern.

On their quiet walk home after church on Sunday, they stop for a moment by the bank of the river, watching the current flow past. And there’s just something about the way she looks, leaning against the railing, her head tilted downwards and an expression of serenity, of the utmost content, playing about her face. There’s just _something_ about it that makes Mary ready to get down on her knee and ask for her hand that instant.

With great difficulty, she refrains. But it’s this moment that makes her realize that there is no way around it. This is really, really happening. She is going to ask Sonya Rostova to marry her if it’s the last thing she’ll do.

It scares her, a little bit. Not the conviction, not the commitment, but… how in God’s name is Mary going to do this without turning it into an awkward mess?

There’s only one person in the world who knows Sonya just as well as she does, who might know how to best go about it. So while Sonya is out one day, at the market with Marya, she sends for Natasha.

Mary’s the picture of anxiety when she opens the door, eyes wide, a hand hovering over her collar, thrumming with nervous energy. “Natasha,” she blurts out. “I have a problem. A very big problem.”

Natasha’s face falls as she rushes inside to take Mary’s hands in hers, closing the door behind her with her elbow. “I came as soon as I could. What’s wrong, Mary?”

“I, uh.” She coughs, clearing her throat. “Um. I really, really want to marry Sonya,” she confesses.

Natasha’s jaw drops in shock. She recovers quickly though, and gasps, clapping her hands together. “Mary! Goodness. How… How is this a problem? That’s amazing!”

“Um... well. How do I... um.” Suddenly at a loss for words, Mary gestures helplessly with her arms, looking so forlorn and confused that Natasha just bursts into laughter.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says once she catches her breath, her voice still shaking with giggles. “You just look so— so— Oh, it’s cute, Mary.”

Mary turns bright red at that, and she looks away, slightly disgruntled. But Natasha, undeterred, reaches over to pull a startled Mary into a tight embrace. “Oh Mary, I’m so happy for you. And I know Sonya will be absolutely overjoyed!”

She lets out a worried breath, unable to let herself share in Natasha’s cheerful proclamations just yet. “But what if she… I don’t know…. What if I make a mess of things?” Mary can’t shake the daunting self-doubt, feels herself spiralling into it a little. “What if she’s not ready? What if she doesn’t even want to marry me and I’ve been reading things wrong the whole time? What if —”

“Whoa, slow down there. Hey, Masha.” Natasha rests her hands reassuringly on Mary’s shoulders. She waits patiently, until Mary finally looks up to meet her eyes. “I can tell you with absolute confidence that Sonya would want nothing more than to hear you say those words. She wants to marry you, too. I know it.”

Mary still looks uncertain, brow furrowed and posture stiff, but she nods slowly. “I… I suppose you’re right. Probably?”

“Of course I am! It’s true love, Mary,” she says, singsong, grinning widely. Mary blushes again, rolling her eyes, giving Natasha a look of fond exasperation.

Pleased that Mary seems to be relaxing, Natasha asks her a question, curious. “How do you plan to propose?”

“Right.” Mary rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. “I… Actually, I was hoping you would be able to help me with that.”

Natasha brightens excitedly. “Oh! Of course I’ll help! I’d be honoured.”

“Thank you so much, Natasha.”

“Ah, wait.” Natasha holds up a finger. “On one very important condition, though. You can really thank me by letting me be there!”

And Mary blinks, mouth falling open a little, her already-red face turning even redder. “Ah,” she manages. “Well… Alright.”

Natasha’s eyes shine with anticipation, and Mary is beginning to wonder what exactly she has gotten herself into. “Great! Let’s get to work.”


	7. Chapter 7

Mary loves to cook.

Both she and Sonya love the comfort of a good homemade meal, and cooking together is one of their favourite things to do on a quiet evening. But Mary can’t stop her hands from shaking, today. She is so full of emotion, of barely-restrained nerves and a restless sort of anticipation sending her heart racing as she peels the potatoes. She tries to push it down, not wanting to worry Sonya. The small box in her pocket is a pointed and meaningful weight against her hip but Mary tries not to think about it.

“Are you alright, love?”

Sonya’s voice jolts Mary out of her thoughts. Oh, fiddlesticks. She really needs to get it under control here, before Sonya gets suspicious. Mustering up a smile as best as she can, she replies, “Yes! Sorry, got a little lost in thought there.”

Sonya is giving Mary an intrigued look, but she gets back to slicing the carrots after another moment’s hesitation. “Thinking about what?”

“Hmm.” Mary purses her lips, wondering how much she can get away with saying. “About how much I love all of this,” she makes a vague gesture at the kitchen they’re standing in, “and you.” It’s not a lie at all.

“Oh.” Sonya flushes, a small smile creeping onto her face, despite herself. “Well then. I love this, and you, too.”

It had all been Natasha’s suggestion, to Sonya’s surprise. “Why don’t we meet you two after dinner?” she’d said. “Marya and I will come by at around seven-thirty in the evening, and then we can all go to the theatre together.”

Natasha has always been enthusiastic about the three (and sometimes four) of them doing things together, so it was rather uncharacteristic of her to suddenly offer to meet them after dinner when she was normally so eager to dine at the Bolkonskys’. But Natasha had waved away her questions offhandedly, just saying, “It’s just nice to have time to yourself sometimes, I know. Go enjoy it.”

It isn’t an entirely satisfying answer to Sonya (seriously, what was the occasion?), but she tries to accept it as it is. And she does have to admit, it’s always wonderful to have Mary to herself.

So they have a nice candlelit dinner, just the two of them, red wine and mushroom solyanka and a tender cut of pork. And it’s very lovely, really, but Sonya can’t quite shake the odd feeling that Mary is… nervous about something. The conversation is engaging, easygoing for the most part, but Mary still seems a bit restless, and throughout the whole dinner she keeps coming back to pat at the pocket of her dress for some reason. She does seem to relax as the night goes on, as it’s apparent they’ve become so comfortable around each other that Mary can’t seem to help but loosen up. But there’s just a hint of something on edge in Mary’s mannerisms that Sonya still picks up on, and it nags a little at the back of her mind.

There’s a knock at the door before Sonya can figure out how to bring it up.

Mary tenses, and that sets the alarm bells ringing in Sonya’s head. That’s definitely weird. It is most certainly just Natasha, coming to meet them for the theatre, and yet Mary seems far more nervous than warranted.

“Uh, I’ll get it,” Sonya offers, hoping that this might put Mary more at ease. Mary gives her a grateful nod, and Sonya stands up from the dining room table and heads to the door.

“Hello, cousin dear,” she says, giving Natasha a quick hug.

“Hi,” Natasha laughs, wrapping her arms around Sonya tightly. “Are you both ready?”

“We should be soon, yes. Where is Marya?”

“Oh, she just had a few things to finish up around the house. It shouldn’t take too long. She’ll be here with the carriage soon,” Natasha answers. The two of them head into the drawing room, where Mary is already standing, greeting Natasha with a gentle smile. “Hello, Natasha.”

Natasha squeezes her in a warm hug. “Hello, Mary!”

They sit down on the sofa to chat, passing the time until Marya arrives. Sonya keeps a sharp eye on Mary, and as the minutes tick by she can definitely tell that something is off. Mary’s fidgeting with her sleeve, her eyes are darting around the room, and her responses are becoming a bit absent-minded. She jumps a little every time she’s addressed directly. Then Sonya watches as suddenly, Natasha and Mary share a rather peculiar look. It makes Mary stand up abruptly. “Oh, uh, I think I left something back in the kitchen. Please excuse me,” she says quickly before leaving the room.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sonya excuses herself to Natasha and follows Mary into the kitchen, worry furrowing her brow. She finds her leaning against the counter, eyes half-closed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. Cautiously, quietly, Sonya asks, “Masha? Is… something wrong?”

Mary starts, bolts upright, and turns to face Sonya. She blinks, and suddenly looks away. A most unexpected blush is beginning to spread across her cheeks. “What? No! Why would anything be wrong? Everything’s fine.”

Her voice is entirely unconvincing. Though, something about Mary’s behaviour is strangely familiar to Sonya, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t ease Sonya’s worry. “Just… You’ve been jumpy all evening,” she says, taking a seat at the counter beside Mary, reaching a hand out to gently touch her shoulder. “You seem really anxious, and I want to know if I can help? You can talk to me about it, whatever it is.”

“N-No! I…” Mary sighs, fiddling nervously with the pocket of her dress again. She takes a moment to compose herself, and Sonya waits apprehensively. “Truly, nothing is wrong. Everything is… more than simply fine, in fact.”

She hesitates, for a moment, drawing in a breath. Then softly she says, “Hey, Natasha.”

And Natasha makes her way over from the drawing room and leans in the doorway, her eyes sparkling and a soft smile dancing on her lips. Sonya cannot make heads nor tails of what is going on.

Mary gestures at Sonya to get up from the kitchen counter, and Sonya does so, with more than a little bit of confusion. Mary pauses again, cheeks flushing.

Then she gets down on one knee, and suddenly Sonya’s head is spinning.

“My dearest, Sonya,” Mary begins.

“From the first glance, I have liked you. And I know that I cannot possibly express the depths of my love for you in simple words, but I will try."

Oh. _Oh._ It all makes sense now, to Sonya, and yet she can hardly believe her ears. But a great sense of tenderness, of joy, of love, overflows her heart, because her heart _knows_ , and she is so caught up in the feeling she very nearly misses Mary's next words.

“...Oh, where to start? I love the way you see the world. I love the way your soul sings. You are absolutely breathtaking, and I find myself drawn to you with every fiber of my being.

“I promise you that I will cherish you and care for you and stay by your side for as long as you’ll have me. It’s like I have never loved anyone before, Sonyushka. Not like this. And every day I thank the Lord, thank the heavens for granting me the chance meet you. To fall in _love_ with you. You are so, so good, and I am forever in awe. You are the sweetest, strongest, best person I know.”

Tears are welling up in Mary’s eyes, but she’s smiling, and Sonya’s heart is soaring and her eyes are watering, too. But Mary isn’t finished. Reaching into her pocket once more, she pulls out a small, velvet box. With trembling fingers, she opens it, revealing the beautiful golden ring nestled inside.

“As an old friend of ours once said: It’s like we are asleep, until we fall in love. I must thank you, for it feels so good to be awake. There is nothing that would make me happier than to spend the rest of my life with you, my dear.”

And here she takes a deep, steadying breath, filling her lungs before continuing with the most important question she’ll ever ask:

“Sofia Alexandrovna Rostova, will you marry me?”

And by way of an answer, Sonya reaches down, hauls Mary up by the collar, and kisses her so deeply and ardently that Natasha has to look away, blushing.

“Oh God, _yes,_ ” Sonya says, when they finally pull apart again. “Yes, I will marry you, Marya Nikolayevna Bolkonskaya. One hundred thousand times, _yes_.”

And Mary’s hands are still shaking and she lets out a nervous, incredulous laugh as she carefully pulls the ring out of the box, slides it onto Sonya’s finger. And then Natasha is pulling the both of them into a crushing hug, and all three of them are laughing, smiling, with tears in their eyes. And that is the scene that Marya gazes upon, fondly, affectionately, when she lets herself in soon after.

 

* * *

 

The wedding is elegant, joyous, lively.

Marya and Andrey give the brides away to each other at the far end of the aisle, her goddaughter and his sister, and then they sit side-by-side in the front pew, tall and proud and both fighting back tears.

Natasha, the beloved maid of honour, lets the tears fall freely, clutching Marya’s arm tightly. Her heart brims with affection for her dear cousin and her dear Mary, her two closest, most precious friends.

Pierre officiates, beaming with pride when he sees his beloved friends walking towards the altar, arm in arm, both resplendent in complementary white dresses. He can sense that they both can hardly wait to cement the moment, so he keeps his words simple and effective. After they slip the rings onto each other’s fingers, the gold glinting in the afternoon sunlight, he finally says the words they’ve all been waiting to hear.

“I now pronounce you _married_ in the eyes of God. You may now kiss the bride. Both of you!”

And they’re on each other in a heartbeat, lips pressed together in an enthusiastic kiss, to resounding applause.

“And now, we feast!” Pierre roars when they finally break apart, throwing a hand in the air.

And cheers erupt from all gathered.

The festivities last long into the night, all eager to eat and drink and dance and chat. Everyone wants to give a toast and to congratulate the happy newlyweds, so it’s not until much later that the two find some relative peace and quiet. Though, the din does seem to die down around them, anyway, when they have only eyes and ears for each other.

They steal a moment just to take it all in, to really _look_ at each other.

Sonya raises her glass, gazing at Mary with warm, glittering eyes. “Drink with me, my love.”

“Gladly, darling,” Mary replies fondly, and they both wink at each other, hearts full, as they take the first sip together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!! There it is. Man, this was.. such a fun time. I love these girls so much. This story may be over, but I def plan/hope to write more about them in the future.
> 
> Kudos/comments are greatly appreciated, as always!
> 
> Thank you all SO much for reading, for coming along with me on this ride :') I really hope I managed to do this pairing justice.


End file.
